


A Kind of Magic

by Slytherclaw (Geminia905)



Category: UnDeadwood (Web Series)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Immortals, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Canon Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:07:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 15,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27555823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Geminia905/pseuds/Slytherclaw
Summary: The Kinsley family has a secret. Some would call it a gift, but Amos Kinsley, aka Clayton Sharpe, knows better.Immortality is not all it's cracked up to be.
Relationships: Matthew Mason/Clayton Sharpe
Comments: 39
Kudos: 34





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another AU of an AU. I definitely think I have a problem. ;)
> 
> I had originally planned for Clayton to have a different family in this one, but I love Josiah and Malachi too much. 
> 
> In this AU, however, Josiah is Clayton's biological father.
> 
> Title is from the song of the same name by Queen and is from Highlander, which some of the themes of this fic are _very_ loosely based on.
> 
> I have no idea where this is going, so fair warning this could be a bumpy ride.

_Friday, September 20, 1878_

Waking up in a coffin is not a pleasant experience.

At first, you don't know where you are. It's so dark you wonder for a moment if your eyes are even open. Then the first panicked thought enters your mind: 'Have I gone blind?'

Reaching up to touch your eyes, your hand connects with a solid surface just inches above your face. Groping around, it's clear you're in a small wooden box - and that's when it begins to sink in.

You begin kicking and scratching at the lid of your wooden prison, screaming and crying out for help as claustrophobia begins to take hold and your panic rises exponentially. How much air could possibly be in this box? Is the box getting smaller? The sides seem to be closer than they were just moments ago. No one is coming.

Eventually, you realize you have to get yourself out. Punch the lid with all your might; kick the end of the box. Something's gotta give.

Once it does, dirt begins pouring in, threatening to drown you. Squeezing out of the hole you made, pushing your way through the dirt, trying to keep from breathing the soil and god knows what else - _Something wriggling_ \- desperately reaching for freedom three, five, six feet above you. Might as well be miles.

All-in-all, a pain in the ass and an experience Clayton Sharpe is, unfortunately, all too familiar with, so when he awakens in darkness after his fateful duel with Aloysius Fogg, he manages to hold the panic at bay and just lies still for a few moments, cursing his fate, but preserving as much precious oxygen as possible.

He's done this before, he can do it again. It's a tight fit, but he's smaller and more wiry than most men who find themselves in these 'one size fits most' generic coffins and he manages to pull his knees up enough to allow him to push at the lid with both feet and hands. Taking a breath, he pushes with all his might.

And is so surprised when the lid flies open that he doesn't have time to brace himself as the wooden box topples off of whatever it was lying upon, and he finds himself falling face first toward the rapidly-approaching ground. He's not aware of crying out, but there's a definite high-pitched cry that seems to echo in his ears as he lands hard, the coffin landing atop him with a crash.

* * *

Reverend Matthew Mason sat in the first pew of his little burned out husk of a church feeling like a failure -- well, more of a failure than usual.

He looked down at the tub of water and red-stained pile of cloth by his feet, then up to the coffin sitting on a small dais in front of the altar.

He'd spent the last hour carefully and reverently washing the body of the man within and dressing him in a fresh suit the ladies had found when they retrieved the younger man's belongings from his room at the Bullock.

Just a day earlier, the thought of bathing Clayton Sharpe would've been a glorious dream and an experience he would've savored. Today, it was a nightmare that he wished he'd wake from.

Why had he just stood there? 

Clayton had tried reasoning with Aloysius, but the older man was relentless in his desire to take the young gunslinger down. When Clayton finally gave up and left the Gem to meet his fate, he'd spared one last look at Matthew, a deep sadness in his grey eyes.

Had he known that would be the last time their eyes would meet? Was he attempting to say goodbye or was it the sadness the Lord must've felt following a once-trusted friend's betrayal.

As much as he wanted to cast Aly in the role of Judas, he knew it was he, himself, who had committed the biggest betrayal. Whispered promises in the night and a stolen kiss when the others weren't looking, then, the moment he was needed -- when he could've taken Aly out from behind while his attention was on Clayton, he'd stood frozen and allowed the man he had fallen in love with to walk out the door to his death. Hell, he never even thought to try healing him afterward until it was much too late.

So, rather than aiding him in life, here he was tending to his body in death in what? Some futile effort to make himself feel as though he'd done something for the other man? 

_Hey, look, Clayton, I wasn't there for you when you needed me, but at least I can make sure you go into the cold, hard ground clean and well dressed._

Arabella had tentatively suggested they might want to decapitate him the way Clayton had taken care of Farnum's corpse to ensure none of Doc's snake pals came back for him, but Matthew couldn't bring himself to desecrate his body in such a way.

Part of him hoped they could find some way to bring the gunslinger back. He'd even attempted to go to the Dealer and beg for him to return Clayton, but the Dealer had simply laughed and turned him away.

The rest of him knew he was being a fool. When the Lord decides it's your time, that's it; he knows this.

Didn't make it hurt any less.

He walked over to the window, looking at the pile of building materials Swearengen's men had dropped off, waiting for the team of builders to begin work on Monday. Sitting nearby was a pile of firewood and an axe.

He thought once more about Arabella's suggestion and remembered Wild Bill and Arabella's sister. Did he really want to risk that happening to Clayton? Was his inability to let go of his desire to have back what he'd lost worth the possible corruption of that beautiful soul? Could he bear to put Clayton down if it came to it?

He turned away from the window, moving to the altar, just a few feet from the casket, and looked up at the cross on the wall. "Lord, I know you like us to work these things out on our own, but just this once couldn't you _please_ just give me a clear sign of what I should do?"

At that moment, the coffin's lid flew violently open and the whole thing began to fall over. He cried out in alarmed surprise, tripped over his own feet as he attempted to move quickly away, and fell onto his posterior as he watched Clayton's body hit the ground, followed immediately by the wooden casket.

He sat, wide eyed and mouth agape, staring at the now upside down box, wondering what could've possibly happened. Then, he heard something coming from beneath the coffin; it wasn't loud, but he definitely heard someone speaking -- or rather, cursing -- in an all-too familiar Texas drawl.

"Ow. Fuck. Damn. Shit."

_Clayton?_ Instinctively, he glanced back toward the window, thinking of the axe outside, then turned back to stare at the coffin once more. Had any of those zombies talked? What the hell was he supposed to do? He glanced back at the cross, muttering, "Not what I had in mind."

There was the sound of shifting beneath the coffin, followed by some grunting, and the box rose and fell to its side as Clayton Sharpe, obviously alive and well despite having been dead just a few minutes earlier, sat up and stared at him, grey eyes as wide with shock as Matthew's own must be.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are bordering on Exposition Hell and Bella hasn't even appeared yet. ;)

The two men stared at each other in stunned silence for several long moments, before Matthew saw Clayton's eyes begin to quickly scan the church's dimly lit interior, marking the locations of windows and doors. He could practically see the calculations going on in the gunslinger's mind as he determined his best escape route.

"Don't!" The word came out louder and more strident than Matthew had intended and he winced as he saw the younger man flinch. "Don't," he repeated, softer, holding one hand out in entreaty. "Please don't run, Clayton. Not until we've had a chance to talk.  _ Please _ ."

Clayton studied him for a long moment, before pushing himself up into a crouch and swinging his legs around into a seated position. He brushed one hand through his hair and let out a sigh, before looking at Matthew in bemusement once more.

"I can't figure you out, Rev'rend." He gave a half-hearted laugh. "I figured you'd be yellin' bloody murder 'bout now."

"Don't think there's not part of me that's wanting to do that very thing." Matthew snorted. "The rest of me is just in awe and thankful for this miracle."

"Miracle?" Clayton scoffed. "This ain't no miracle, Rev'rend." He shook his head as though the idea of a miracle were more preposterous than a man literally returning from the dead in front of Matthew's eyes. He looked back at the empty dais and the broken coffin. "Why weren't I in the ground?"

Matthew wasn't sure if Clayton was actually talking to him, but answered just the same. "I wanted to have a proper funeral for you, even if it was only likely to be Arabella and Miriam in attendance. I was just finishing..." He could feel his cheeks warming. "Preparing your b-body..."

Clayton's head shot around to look at him, eyes wide. "How long was I dead?"

"Umm. A few hours? I brought you back here and ordered the coffin while the ladies went to collect your things from the Bullock and then I had to..."

"A few hours?" Clayton had obviously stopped listening to his rambling and began opening the buttons on his shirt, revealing his chest -- and no sign of the ugly wound that had previously marred the skin over his heart. "It's never happened this quickly before."

"Merciful Lord," Matthew muttered, his attention still on the non-existent wound. "How could it just be--" Clayton's words registered and he looked back up at the other man in astonishment. "' _ Before _ ?' You mean this isn't the first time this has happened?"

"First time this year," Clayton said, obviously trying for humor, but failing miserably. He sighed and met Matthew's eyes once more. "This is the third time I've woken up in a coffin and at least the fourth time I've died in the last five years. It's practically routine at this point."

Matthew could feel his jaw moving and was sure his mouth was making shapes but he had no idea what he was trying to say. His head felt as though it were stuffed with cotton and he simply could not comprehend what Clayton was telling him.

"Easy there, Rev'rend." 

Clayton was looking at him with concern and Matthew felt laughter bubbling up at the sheer absurdity of the situation. Here was Clayton, who'd been  _ dead _ just minutes ago, looking at  _ him _ in concern. He'd gone insane; that was the only possible explanation.

"Matthew, you need to breathe." Clayton had managed to move closer somehow and was now frowning at him from a mere arm's length away. There was a sudden sting in his left cheek and his head snapped to the side, his mind clearing suddenly as he realized Clayton had just slapped him.

Matthew sucked in air that turned into a sob and he grabbed Clayton and pulled him roughly to his chest. The other man let out a surprised yelp and struggled a bit, but Matthew didn't let go. "You asshole," he gasped around another sob, with no true heat behind the word. "I  _ mourned _ you.  _ We _ mourned you. There's nothing  _ routine _ about that."

Clayton stopped struggling and went limp in his embrace for a moment, before pulling back just enough to look him in the eye. "I'm sorry. I'm not used to having friends or people to care about me - aside from my family, anyway, but I haven't seen them in ages. Normally, this happens and I just move on to a new town and a new name; no lookin' back."

"And this time?" Matthew asked, hopefully.

"I want to stay." He ducked his head, then looked back up, almost shyly, through his lashes. "I want to stay with you." 

Matthew thought his heart was going to burst through his chest at the admission. 

"And Miriam, of course," Clayton added, a bit too quickly, a touch of pink staining his cheeks.

"Of course," Matthew agreed, solemnly, but couldn't hide a dopey grin.

"And Bella, too, I suppose," Clayton finished half-heartedly, which made Matthew laugh out loud. Clayton was silent for a long moment, before adding, hesitantly, "But then there's Aly..."

Matthew's brow creased with anger at the name and he instinctively pulled the younger man even tighter against his chest. "Don't worry about him. Joanie pulled some strings after seeing how upset Miriam was and the Sheriff's running him out of town first thing in the morning. We just have to keep you out of sight until then."

Clayton seemed to melt into his embrace and they sat in silence for a few minutes, before Clayton pulled back. "Aloysius isn't the only problem here, Matty." Matthew had to consciously stop himself from grinning like an idiot at the nickname and how naturally it seemed to roll off of the younger man's tongue. "How many people saw the duel? Did anyone get close to my body besides you?"

"Not that many were there, actually, and only Aloysius, the ladies and myself got anywhere near you. The Sheriff stopped by after he talked to Joanie, but he didn't ask to see you or anything."

Clayton seemed to become lost in thought for a minute, then smiled. "Okay, I think we can make this work. You said you have my things?"

"Yeah, they're over there." He pointed to a small pile sitting behind the pulpit and watched in bemusement as Clayton hurried over and began digging through one of the bags, pulling out what appeared to be a toiletry kit and something else, which he quickly shoved in his pocket.

"Wash room?" Clayton asked, turning back to him.

"Upstairs by my bedroom." He pointed weakly toward the stairs. "There should still be some water, though it's likely cold…"

"Okay, stay here." Clayton rushed up the stairs and Matthew was once again struck by the knowledge that less than half-an-hour ago, this man had been lying dead in a wooden box.

Matthew told himself he should at least get up and put the coffin back to rights (well, as right as possible, given the way the lid had snapped), but he couldn't seem to make himself move from his place on the floor.

What the hell had he gotten himself into? He was thankful to have Clayton back, of course, but how were they going to handle this? What was going to happen when Miriam - and especially Bella, who was still grieving her sister's fate - found out their friend was back from the dead? What if Aly got wind that he was alive and came back to finish the job? How the hell were they supposed to fool the town, let alone someone like Swearengen?

He was still lost in thought when the sound of a throat being cleared alerted him to the fact he was no longer alone in the room. He looked up, surprised to find a clean-shaven young man, no older than his mid-twenties, with short, faintly curling locks looking down at him. 

He nearly asked the young man what he was doing there, worried that he'd seen Clayton, before he noticed the kid's eyes -- familiar grey eyes sparkling with amusement as recognition slowly dawned.

"Clayton?" He finally managed to get himself to his feet, walking over and taking the other man's chin in his hands, turning his head from one side to the other and marveling at the change in his appearance. "You look at least ten years younger. How--?"

Clayton took Matthew's hand in his own and smiled softly, almost sadly. "This is the real me, Matthew. This is how I looked when I died the first time and it is how I will always look. I've learned to make myself appear older with the right facial hair and a few tricks I've picked up while working at some theaters over the years." He looked intensely at Matthew, seeming to will him to understand what he was telling him. "It will allow me to fit in for a while, but eventually it won't be enough as everyone around me ages, but I stay the same."

"So, you will eventually have to leave...everyone...behind." Matthew couldn't bring himself to say 'leave  _ me _ behind.' "How long?"

"I have no idea." Clayton laughed humorlessly. "I've only been this way for five years and I've never tried to stay in one place for more than a few months." He ran a hand through his newly shorn hair, tousling the curls in the process. "My father was thirty-two when it happened to him, a year before I was born, and he was still managing to fit in when I had to lam out at sixteen, so hopefully I could do the same."

Matthew blinked and stepped back a bit. "Wait. You mean your father is this way, too?"

Clayton snorted. "Oh yeah. The good old Kinsley Family Secret. I've met an uncle who looks no older than you, but was here before the Mayflower landed and there are ancestors older than him still back in the old country."

Matthew was aware his jaw had dropped open midway through Clayton's explanation and shut it with an audible snap before managing to stammer out, "B-but  _ how _ ?"

Clayton shrugged. "Some say our family was blessed by a Fae, others say we were cursed by a Hag. Personally, I lean toward the curse."


	3. Chapter 3

_ Saturday, July 10, 1852 _

Three year old Amos Kinsley squealed in delight as his Mama sat a small calico kitten down on the porch in front of him.

"You stay here and play with the kitty, Amie." She smiled, ruffled his hair, and picked up her laundry basket, heading out to the clothesline beside the house.

A few moments later, his big brother walked by the porch, carrying an old ladder under his arm, stopped and gave him a smile. "Whatcha got there, Amie?"

"Kitty!" He held the kitten up so his brother could see.

"That's a pretty one. You treat her gentle, okay?"

"Kay." He set the kitten down, carefully, and began giving her very gentle pats, his hands barely making contact with the brightly patched fur.

"Good boy." Malachi laughed and continued his way around the side of the house.

"Malachi, you be careful up there!" Mama called out a few moments later. "I wish you'd wait for your Papa."

"I've patched a roof before, Mama. Stop fussin'!"

The next few minutes passed with only the sounds of a kitten purring, the faint tones of Mama singing a hymn as she hung up the laundry, and his brother working away on the roof.

Then there was the sound of something sliding overhead, a few muffled thuds at the side of the house, and his brother began saying several words that would get him in big trouble if Papa had heard.

"Malachi? What's going on over there?" Mama called.

"Just dropped the fu--the hammer!"

Amos could hear his brother walking to the side of the roof, then a moment later, the sound of snapping wood, a surprised shout, and a heavy thud.

"Malachi!" His mother cried and he could see her drop the laundry she was holding and begin running toward the side of the house. Amos picked up the kitten and started to follow, not even getting off the first step before his mother let out a horrified scream. "Josiah!"

As Amos rounded the corner of the house, he could see his Papa emerging from the stables and running in their direction, as well. Then he saw a broken ladder, his Mama standing with a hand over her mouth, tears trailing over her cheeks, and Malachi lying by the wood pile, his neck at a funny angle that didn't look at all comfortable; he seemed to be sleeping, but it was a silly place to take a nap.

"Kai?"

"Amos? Oh, God." His Mama hurried over and picked him and the kitty up, and much to his consternation, turned him so he couldn't see his Kai. 

A moment later he heard his Papa say one of those naughty words that Kai always got in trouble for saying. "Get him inside; our room. I've got this."

Mama carried him and the kitty inside and put them down on her and papa's bed. "Now, you stay here and play with your kitty. Do not leave this room. Do you hear me, Amos Elijah?"

First and middle name; Mama meant business. He nodded solemnly.

"Good boy." She hurried away, pulling the door shut behind her. Before it closed, he was able to catch a glimpse of Papa carrying Kai into their bedroom.

Well, that made sense. Papa obviously agreed with Amos that a wood pile was a silly place for a nap.

Picking up the kitten, he walked over to his parents' closet and began pulling out some of his father's boots to try on. Since they wanted him to stay in here, obviously they wouldn't mind him looking at their stuff just this once.

Snippets of conversation drifted in from the next room, but he didn't pay them any mind. 

"How long...?"

"...a clean break. Probably not long..."

"What...tell him?"

He was in the midst of rummaging through his mother's hand bag, looking for sweets, when he heard his brother cry out from the next room. Poor Kai must've had a nightmare. He'd be sure to save a sweet for his brother when he found them. 

Sweets made everything better, after all.

* * *

_ Thursday, January 17, 1856 _

It was a cold, gray, rainy day as seven year old Amos stood, holding his brother's hand, watching as his father knelt beside a freshly covered grave.

Josiah was connecting a piece of rope that protruded from the recently disturbed soil to a bell affixed to a gray headstone bearing the words:

Abby Kinsley   
Sept 1818 - Jan 1856   
Wife, Mother   
Mate in Heart & Soul

Above the bell was a small metal placard that simply said, 'Hope.'

Amos tugged on his brother's hand and when Malachi looked down at him, whispered, "What's the bell for, Kai?"

Malachi knelt down, wrapping an arm around Amos' shoulders, and whispered back, "Sometimes people are buried who ought not be. They can ring the bell to get help."

"Do you think Mama will ring the bell?"

Malachi sighed sadly and simply said, "Soulmates and miracles are rare things, Amie."

The bell never rang.

* * *

_ Wednesday, March 18, 1857 _

Amos hurried home from school, eager to show Kai and Papa the excellent marks he'd received in school today.

As he opened the door, his smile faded as he found Malachi standing in the middle of the sitting room, traveling jacket on and a packed bag at his feet.

After their mother had died the previous year, Papa and Kai had begun to carefully explain to him how their family differed from others. The main thing they had impressed upon him was the fact that Kai had not been aging along with his friends and classmates the way he had before his accident nearly five years earlier.

_ "Eventually, people are going to notice that Malachi is different and begin to question it. When that time comes, he, you and I are going to be in danger," his father told him, solemnly. _

_ "Why?" _

_ "People don't like things that are different than what they consider 'normal.' It scares them and fear tends to lead to anger, hate." He leaned down and looked Amos directly in the eye, saying, gravely, "There's nothing more dangerous than a large group of scared people, son. Remember that." _

_ Amos nodded, his mouth going suddenly dry as he remembered hearing Kai and his friends talking about a crowd of angry people doing bad things to poor Tad Hopkins a few months back. _

_ "Your brother is twenty now. The day that someone begins to question why he still looks sixteen is not far off. When that day comes, he will have to leave us - for his safety and ours." _

"No!" His school books fell from his hand as Amos rushed to throw his arms around his brother's waist, sobbing. "Don't leave, Kai. Please don't leave me!"

"Shh. Amie, shh." Malachi knelt down, taking Amos' shaking body into his arms. "Baby, you knew this day was coming. Dad and I have explained--"

"Don't care!" Amos sniffed. "Can't you just stay inside? No one would see you then."

Malachi laughed, sadly. "I'd go stir crazy within a day, Amie. You know how much I love being outside and working with the horses."

"More than me?"

"Now, don't be silly," Malachi said, sternly, pulling him back and looking him in the eye. "I don't love anything more than you. That's why I have to do this. To keep you safe." He reached out, his finger swiping a fat tear from Amos' cheek. "It won't be forever, Amie. Once I'm settled somewhere safe and you're a bit older, you can come visit. Until then, I'll write to you every chance I get."

"Promise?" Amos asked, his lower lip trembling.

"Promise." Malachi pulled him into a tight hug.

Behind him, the door opened and a moment later, his father said, softly and sadly, "Midnight's saddled and ready, Kai. I got your provisions settled on Samson and there's just enough room left for your travel bag."

"Thanks, Dad." Malachi pressed a kiss to Amos' cheek and stood up, picking up his bag. "You be good, help Dad, and for God's sake, stay off the roof!" He gave a watery laugh, rustled Amos' hair, and hurried to the door, stopping just long enough for their father to wrap him in a crushing hug.

"Stay safe, son. Love you." Josiah's voice cracked on the last words and he moved quickly over to Amos.

Malachi glanced back one last time, mouthed 'Love you', and hurried out the door.

Amos turned his head, burying his face against his father's hip, and wept as he listened to the sounds of hoofbeats fading into the distance.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short update, I'm afraid, but I'm working four days instead of two this week, so hopefully have the next part up tomorrow.

Wood creaked and Matthew glanced up from the dais, where he was attempting (unsuccessfully) to fix the busted lid of the coffin, and wasn't surprised to see Clayton jump from his seat in the front pew for the umpteenth time, turning toward the door, one hand fidgeting with his shirt while the other raked nervously through his hair.

"Clayton. It's just the building settling, remember? Relax."

"I know. Sorry." Clayton huffed out a breath. "It's just...every instinct is screaming at me to lam out  _ now _ before it's too late."

Matthew frowned. "I thought you wanted to stay."

"I  _ do _ ," Clayton assured, earnestly. "But I was taught from the age of seven to not go telling our family secret. Historically, mortals have not taken well to it and even close friends have turned on us..." His voice trailed off.

_ Ah. So that's it. _ It had truly warmed Matthew's heart as he watched Miriam and Clayton's relationships quickly develop from aloof, wary regard to a fierce trust and protectiveness that reminded him of nothing so much as a mama bear and her cub. 

He'd noticed Miriam contemplating a bottle on the bar, when Fogg was in the middle of forcing Clayton into their duel, and had feared the woman would get herself killed in a reckless attempt at saving Clayton from his executioner. Fortunately, Clayton had noticed, as well, and a single shake of his head had gotten the message through without alerting Fogg.

Her capitulation had most likely saved her life, but it had added an immeasurable amount of guilt to the grief she felt just minutes later, as she wept over Clayton's body where it lay in the street.

He also suspected if Joanie hadn't called in her favor to the Sheriff, resulting in him guarding Fogg's hotel room to ensure the man didn't get into any mischief before being escorted out of town in the morning, that Miriam would've had no qualms about taking the bounty hunter out in his sleep.

Matthew put down his tools and made his way over to the younger man. He reached out and took his hand, giving it a squeeze and smiling, reassuringly. "Everything is going to be fine. You didn't see Miriam after the duel; she was devastated. Now, she may want to smack you for putting her through this, but there is no way she's going to turn her back on you. I'm certain of it."

Clayton relaxed visibly at the Reverend's assurances, but a bit of tension crept back almost immediately. "What about Bella? You saw how much she wanted Cynthia back and then she lost her all over again. How is  _ she _ going to take this?"

Matthew's smile faltered slightly as he remembered the younger woman's earlier determination to "protect" Clayton's body from invasion via decapitation. "I believe she's moved past that stage of her grief and once she gets over the shock of your resurrection, I'm sure she'll be fine. Until then..." He looked Clayton in the eye and put as much gravity behind his words as possible. "...stay close to me."

"Always." The word was little more than breath on air, and judging by the pink that tinged his cheeks and the way his eyes darted away, Matthew guessed Clayton hadn't meant to say it out loud.

Matthew's heart fluttered wildly and his mouth went dry, but he managed to whisper back, "Same."

That's when the church door opened and the sound of women's voices drifted in, carried on the evening breeze.

The two men quickly separated and Matthew indicated for Clayton to stay where he was as he made his way to meet the two would-be attendees of a funeral that wasn't going to happen.


	5. Chapter 5

Time and distance seem to behave strangely when you're mourning.

Miriam could've sworn they had just left the church, the Reverend staring sadly down at the body of the man he was preparing for eternal rest; the body of a man they'd both quickly come to love in different ways. 

Now, she and Bella were heading back to the burned-out building and it seemed to be approaching both too quickly and too slowly at the same time.

She wasn't sure she could ever truly explain her feelings for the gunslinger, if anyone were to ask. They'd barely known each other and he wasn't that much younger than herself, so why did she feel like she was putting another of her own children in the ground?

The day Swearengen had called them all to his office, she'd found herself both intrigued by and wary of the dark stranger with his piercing, icy grey eyes and laconic, reserved nature. Everyone back home had heard tales of the lawmen and outlaws of the "wild west" and here she was sitting at the same table as a notorious gunslinger known as 'The Coffin'.

How many men did you have to put in the ground to earn such a nickname? How black and cold must your heart be to make a living off the blood of others?

Yet, when he finally spoke, he was polite and gentlemanly, and while he wasn't necessarily book-smart like Bella, he displayed an intelligence and wisdom that surprised her.

When they finally spent some time alone and he was so earnest in his assurances that he never killed a man who wasn't trying to kill him first, she had no trouble believing him. 

Suddenly, she could see the softness and warmth hidden behind those seemingly cold eyes. Despite his attempts to hide it, there was an innate innocence about this man that brought out the maternal instinct she was sure had been buried with her last stillborn child. She had looked forward to having a chance to really get to know him once all this snake business was out of the way.

Then, a true snake, one named Aloysius Fogg, reared his head and took that chance away from her in the most disgusting, cowardly way possible. Despite everything they'd gone through together, that traitorous wretch had forced Clayton into a duel, and even though it was obvious the younger man was trying to spare his life, coldly put a bullet through Clayton's beautiful, selfless heart.

And she'd stood by and let him do it. 

Oh, they all had: she, Bella and the Reverend, but  _ she'd _ had an opportunity to possibly stop it with a bottle to the back of the son of a bitch's head, but had hesitated when Clayton met her eyes and shook his head. Even in those final moments, when he was obviously fearful for his own life and trying to talk Fogg out of the duel, he had put her safety above his own life. 

Now, he was gone and that two-faced polecat who murdered him was off sleeping in a soft bed and being allowed to safely leave town in the morning. If she had her way, Fogg would wake up on fire, but the Sheriff had stationed himself in front of the bastard's door and had a deputy watching the window from outside.

How would one go about putting a bounty on a bounty hunter's head, anyway?

"Miriam?" Bella's concerned voice cut through her thoughts and she blinked, realizing that she'd stopped walking just a few feet from the church. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, Darlin'." She attempted to muster a smile for her friend, but Bella clearly wasn't buying it. "Sorry. It's just so--"

"Unfair?" Bella gave a sad smile and Miriam wanted to kick herself.

"Oh, I'm such a fool. Here I am leaning on you when you're not even over your own grief..."

"Hey, none of that." Bella gave her arm a shake. "You were there for me when I needed someone to lean on; the least I can do is return the favor. Don't ever think your pain is somehow less important than mine or any less deserving of a friendly shoulder to cry on, okay?"

Miriam just nodded, giving the younger woman a watery smile.

"Also," Bella began, looking away and fidgeting with one of her dress sleeves. "I'm sorry...for earlier." She glanced up and must've noticed Miriam's confusion. "My...suggestion for Clayton's body. I'm not great with tact and should never have brought it up the way I did. It's just..." She stopped and took a steadying breath. "After seeing Cynthia that way, I couldn't bear the thought of Mr. Sharpe -- I mean, Clayton -- ending up like that.

"He was a good man who tried to spare the life of the man bent on killing him." She said with conviction, looking up at the stars as though daring them to prove her wrong, and gave Miriam's arm a squeeze. " _ That's _ how you and the Reverend should always remember him, not as some shambling puppet playing host to a demonic parasite."

Miriam covered her hand with her own. "I understood, Darlin', and so did the Reverend. You're right to be concerned. Hopefully those snakes are gone, but we can't know for sure. We may have to consider doing what you suggested." Her voice cracked a bit on the last few words, but she gave Bella's hand a pat, took a deep breath and determinedly crossed the last few feet to the church's entrance. 

"That can wait until later, though. Right now, we need to say a proper goodbye to our friend," she said as she opened the door.

They entered the church to find the Reverend hurrying to meet them, a strained smile on his lips. "Good evening, ladies."

"Good evening, Reverend." Bella greeted the preacher cordially, but her eyes had strayed to something further in. "I didn't know we were having company."

Miriam absently murmured her own greeting as she followed Bella's gaze and spotted a young man standing near the altar, shuffling his feet and hugging his arms to himself in a way that projected nervousness and uncertainty. Had the Reverend hired a grave digger? The original plan had been for the three of them to take care of Mr. Sharpe's interment. If he'd wanted to hire some help, surely he could've found someone a bit...sturdier than this slip of a boy?

"Ah. Yes," Mason said, reaching up to run a hand along the back of his neck and projecting a similar nervousness as the boy. "There's been a... After you left... Well, we've all seen the strange things that happen here..."

As the man continued to hem and haw, Bella had turned her attention toward the apse once more and suddenly let out a gasp. "Reverend, what happened?" She bustled by the taller man and rushed toward the altar where Miriam could now see the coffin sitting on a small dias, its lid broken. 

' _ Oh, no. _ ' She hurried after Bella, only peripherally aware of the Reverend following behind, calling for them to wait. She arrived just as the younger woman lifted the warped lid, revealing an empty coffin. "Oh, Lord. 

"Reverend, are you alright?" She turned to stare at Mason, who had dropped into the first pew, alongside the stranger, who was currently burying his face in his hands, his elbows resting on his knees.

"I'm fine, Ms. Miriam. Don't fret." The Reverend was now rubbing soothing circles on the young man's back. Had one of those things taken over Clayton's body and attacked the boy? Is that why he was here?

Before she could ask, Bella turned to them, her green eyes shining with unspent tears. "I knew it. I knew they'd come for him. We should've taken his head when we had the chance."

"Well, I, for one, am grateful you didn't," a muffled voice drawled and Miriam turned her attention to the young man just as he raised his head and met her eye-to-(familiar gray) eye.

She felt as though her knees were going to give out as she mentally added longer hair and mutton chops to the boy's visage and found herself no longer looking at a stranger. " _ Clayton? _ "

"Good evenin', Ms. Miriam."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay and subsequent short update. It's been a stressful week and not conducive to writing. Hope to have more tomorrow, but no promises.

"' _ Good evening _ '?" There was more than a touch of hysteria in Miriam's voice, along with an undercurrent of righteous fury that had Arabella feeling mighty thankful it wasn't directed at her. "Is that  _ all _ you have to say to me, Clayton Sharpe?"

The former corpse gave a half-shrug and a sad smile. "Sorry?"

Well, apparently  _ that _ was the wrong thing to say, as Miriam threw herself forward and began smacking the younger man's arm, repeatedly, with her handbag.

"' _ Sorry _ ?'" she wailed, and Arabella realized she was crying. "I've been grieving for you all day and all you can say is ' _ Sorry _ ?'"

To his credit, Sharpe didn't try to defend himself, just took the blows with a mild grimace. The Reverend wasn't quite as wise and ended up with a stinging blow to his hand when he tried, briefly, to intervene, before Sharpe waved him off.

Eventually, the rage ran out and Miriam dropped her handbag with a sob, before reaching out and pulling the gunslinger into a tight hug. "How?" she asked, though whether she was talking to Sharpe, God, or someone else entirely, Arabella couldn't say. "How is this possible?"

"I'd quite like to know the answer to that question myself," she said and could feel the Reverend's eyes bore into her, even before she turned to meet his gaze. There was no overt hostility in his brown eyes, but there was a wariness there that let her know he hadn't forgotten their previous conversation and a determination that suggested he would do everything in his power to stop her, were she to try to follow through.

' _ He's got it bad. Aly's going to-- _ ' She immediately shoved the thought out of her head. Aloysius Fogg wasn't someone she wanted to think about, now or ever again.

Miriam and Sharpe both seemed to pick up on the tension in the room and the older woman pulled away, glancing between herself and the Reverend.

"I don't suppose you'd believe this saved me?" Sharpe said, digging into a pocket and pulling something out, presenting it for her inspection.

Curious, despite herself, Arabella moved forward, peripherally aware of the Reverend not-so-subtly imposing himself between the two of them (it was really quite adorable), and looked down at the object in Sharpe's hand. It had at one time been a lovely silver snuff box, but was now dented and deformed by the bullet lodged within it.

"I might if I hadn't seen your wound for myself," she said, matter-of-factly. "I'm trying my hardest to remain calm and search for a rational explanation, Mr. Sharpe. I'm not blind; I can see you're clearly not the same sort of undead abomination that Wild Bill and--that Wild Bill was." She cleared her throat and resolutely pushed recent unpleasantries aside. "However, the Doc passed for human right up until he turned into a giant snake, so you'll excuse me if I'm not quite ready to take your miraculous resurrection at face value."

"Believe me, there is nothing ' _ miraculous _ ' about  _ this _ ." Sharpe motioned toward himself and then reluctantly explained his family's dilemma.

"According to my father, the most widely accepted explanation for the whole mess is that some idiot ancestor of ours managed to trick a Fae into granting him a wish and then promptly botched it." He snorted. "After our recent experiences, I'm beginning to suspect it had more to do with a poor deal of the cards."

" _ That's _ why you were so reluctant to touch any of the magic," the Reverend said, his eyes widening with dawning understanding, then began to look sick with guilt. "Aly changed after the failed heal..." The unspoken, 'that I talked him into' hung heavily in the air.

"God don't play cards," Clayton repeated his earlier admonition, but gave the Reverend an understanding smile. "You couldn't have known, Matthew. Don't dwell on what you can't change."

"But if it weren't for your family..."

"Don't. Dwell." Clayton reached out and squeezed his arm. "I don't hold you  _ or _ Aly responsible for this. We're all just pawns and playthings for whatever this  _ thing _ is. It's nothing new." He stopped to look around the church and then at each of them, and sighed. "I just wish I'd been able to stay longer."


	7. Chapter 7

"What?" Matthew managed to push his guilt away long enough to stare at Clayton in shock and disbelief. "You said you would stay; that we'd convince them you faked your death to throw Aly off the scent."

Clayton ran a hand through his hair and turned away with a huff. "I  _ want _ to. God, I want to, but the more I think about it..." He sighed and turned back, his eyes full of apology and sadness. "The whole town must've seen Miriam grievin' over me, why would we have not told her? And if Arabella checked my wound, how did she miss this?" He held up the damaged snuff box.

"Is  _ that _ all you're worried about?" Arabella scoffed. "Why, I'm just a dainty little rich girl, Mr. Sharpe," she said in a sugary sweet voice that emphasized both her southern drawl and her sarcasm. "What do I know of corpses and surely I'd swoon if I tried checking such a horrid wound?"

"And surely a man would never trust a gossipy woman with such a vital secret," Miriam added, primly.

"Arabella didn't actually see the wound until we were back here in private, Clayton. The most they'd have seen her do on the street was check your breathing and search for a heartbeat," Matthew assured. "Aside from Swearengen and the Sheriff, the majority of men in this town aren't going to look too deep at the ruse. They'll just appreciate you getting one up on the law.

I'm sure Al and Sheriff Bullock will have their suspicions, but you do have  _ this _ ." He reached down, taking Clayton's smaller hand in his own and running his thumb over the ruined silver trinket and couldn't help asking, "What is the story behind this anyway?"

Clayton stared at their hands for a long moment, before seeming to realize a question had been asked. "Oh. I bought it a few years back, intending to send it home as a gift for my dad. I was working security for a large cattle ranch and had been carrying it in my pocket for about a week when I was ambushed by some rustlers. Most of them couldn't hit the broad side of a barn, but one got a lucky shot in." He gave a quiet chuckle. "I just got luckier."

"So, it's already saved your life once."

"Well," Clayton coughed. "I wouldn't say it saved my life." His eyes twinkled and he gave Matthew a mischievous grin that nearly took his breath away. "It did ensure I could still sit down for a few days, though."

*************

The four of them spent the next few hours concocting a story to explain Clayton's continued existence, examining all angles to rule out inconsistencies and making sure they all had the details memorized.

Arabella was still keeping her distance from Clayton and keeping a not-so-subtle eye on him throughout the evening, but she still worked on the plan as hard as the others. It was the best Matthew could expect of her, given all that had happened over the last few days, and he was grateful she was willing to help, despite her misgivings.

Miriam, on the other hand, was practically doting on the gunslinger. He knew she'd been feeling as guilty as he had about not coming to Clayton's aid when Aly instigated the duel and the ensuing grief had nearly crushed her. It was nice seeing the life return to her eyes, as well as some fire, when discussing the possibility of whether some poachers may get it in their head that the bounty was still up for grabs and try for Clayton themselves; a mother grizzly had nothing on Miriam Landisman. 

Clayton, despite all his efforts to appear put out with Miriam's mother-henning, was smiling and becoming more animated as the night wore on and it dawned on Matthew that they were now being allowed to see more of the true Clayton (Amos?) and less of the Mr. Sharpe persona, as he grew accustomed to the idea that he might actually be able to set down roots and live a relatively normal life - with them.

By the time the ladies were ready to take their leave, Clayton was listing heavily against his shoulder, trying and failing to keep his eyes open (Apparently, dying and being resurrected in the same day takes a lot out of you. Who knew?). Not once in the short time they'd all been together had he voluntarily allowed himself to be in such a vulnerable position and it warmed Matthew's heart to see it now. Even Bella seemed to soften a bit at the sight.

He managed to gently extract himself from his position as Clayton's pillow long enough to see the ladies off and lock up, before returning and gently lifting the dozing gunslinger into his arms and heading for the stairs.

Clayton roused himself enough to ask, "Hmm? Wha--?" and began to wiggle in his arms, but Matthew just shushed him, placing a gentle kiss in his hair and the smaller man immediately quieted.

He laid Clayton on his bed, removed the younger man's boots and tossed the covers over him, before starting to make a pallet for himself on the floor. Once finished, he sat beside the bed, just watching Clayton sleep for a few moments, before reaching over and gently brushing away a stray lock of hair that had escaped Clayton's hasty barbering and fallen across his eyes.

He laid back, his eyes traveling over the small sparse room and decided the first order of business, once Clayton was officially a living member of the community once more, was to work on a better living arrangement. Mr. Swearengen was already going to pay for the church to be repaired and maintained, surely they could come to terms on acquiring land for a parsonage.


	8. Chapter 8

Clayton lay in the dark, waiting for the Reverend's breathing to even into the steady rhythm of deep sleep.

He felt bad for the subterfuge -- especially since he'd been genuinely moved by the bigger man's care. When he'd feigned sleep in an effort to get the ladies to leave, he'd assumed the Preacher would leave him where he was for the night; no one had carried him to bed since he was a child.

Unfortunately, it also meant his plans had to wait until he was sure the older man wouldn't wake up as he made his exit.

A deep, rumbling snore, more appropriate to a bear than a man, made him jump slightly and he waited a few moments to be sure the Reverend didn't wake himself up. There was the sound of shifting as the other man rolled over in his sleep and then the only sounds in the room were Clayton's own breathing and Matthew's deep, steady breaths.

Moving carefully, Clayton managed to climb out of bed and silently make his way out of the bedroom and down to where his belongings were piled behind the pulpit. He found his colts and strapped them onto his hip, then dug further until he located his old bowie knife. His hat and duster were folded neatly on the altar and he grabbed them last.

Once he was ready, he made his way through the back window that Arabella had used just a couple nights earlier.

Clayton Sharpe wasn't a man who came to a town and idly passed his time. During the relatively short time he'd been in Deadwood, he'd made a point of learning all of the alleyways and hidden entrances to the various establishments in town, as well as the habits and schedules of the more noteworthy folk.

He was aware, from the discussion with Miriam and Arabella, that a deputy had been assigned to watch Aly's room from the outside, so he would have to be careful, but he was fairly certain he knew the most likely locations for such a stakeout, and made sure to alter his course accordingly.

He glanced up toward the window where he knew the Reverend slept, then took a deep breath and fought to bring his conflicting emotions in check. He hadn't lied to Miriam, he had never killed a man who hadn't tried to kill him first. He'd even done his damnedest to show Aly mercy earlier in the day; allowing himself to be mortally wounded in the process.

That didn't mean he would forgive and forget every transgression or that he would simply overlook a target being placed on his back. Someone didn't have to physically be holding a gun to your head to be a threat to your life. It was time to go on the offensive.

He stilled his mind, drawing upon all the knowledge he'd acquired of his prey over the last few weeks and went on the hunt.

* * *

Al Swearengen was in a foul mood.

He didn't like miscalculating and he'd made a  _ huge _ miscalculation earlier in the day and now it was interfering with his "extracurricular activities." The girls were smart enough to not comment as he pulled on his clothes, making himself presentable, and stalked out the door, slamming it behind him.

He had to be coming down with something. It couldn't possibly be guilt he was feeling. 

Ellis Alfred Swearengen did  _ not _ do guilt.

_ Fucking miscalculations. _

He stalked across the hall, vaguely aware of Johnny watching him nervously from the bar below, and entered his office.

Before he could turn to shut the door, the cold barrel of a gun pressed against the back of his head and the door shut firmly behind him, the sound of a lock clicking ominously into place.

"Good morning, Al," an eerily familiar voice growled in his ear. "I think it's time you and I had a little talk."


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, my holiday hours started tonight and I'll be working the better part of the next two weeks straight. While I can't promise a new chapter every day, I should be able to update more frequently.

"Sharpe?!"

"Why, Al, you sound surprised - or disappointed." Clayton growled the last word and dug the barrel of the gun harder against the older man's skull. "Not so much fun when the gun's up against  _ your _ head, is it?"

"You've got things all wrong, Sharpe." Swearengen slowly raised his hands in surrender. "I'm not your enemy."

"Oh, really? I suppose you're going to tell me it's just a coincidence that Fogg came for me right after spending a few minutes talking to you  _ in private _ ?" It took every bit of willpower Clayton had to not put his finger on the trigger.

"No. I'm telling you it was a...miscalculation on my part." Al sighed, sounding put upon, as though having a gun to his head was just another day at the office. "Look, can we please sit down and discuss this face-to-face, like the business men we both are? I assure you, it'll be just as satisfying to shoot me sitting at my desk, if that's what you wish."

Clayton considered for a moment. "Fine, but you'd better move nice and slow. My finger is just itchin' to pull this trigger." He stepped back a bit, keeping his gun trained on the older man and watched him slowly approach the desk. He waited until Swearengen sat, before adding, "I've been waiting on you for a while. I already found the hidden weapons, so don't even bother lookin' for them."

"Of course." Swearengen rolled his eyes and finally looked up to meet Clayton's own, his eyebrows immediately rising in shock. "Well, this is a new look. Plannin' to give up the gunslinger business and try out for a fuckin' boys choir?"

"Don't push your luck, Al." Clayton moved to sit at one of the chairs across from the desk. "I've already got plenty of reason to want to put a hole in that smug face of yours."

"You and a hundred other people, kid." Swearengen was quiet for a moment, then said, "Look, I don't have anything against you, Sharpe. Hell, you're exactly the kind of man I  _ need _ around here."

"So you put a bounty hunter on my scent. Makes perfect sense."

"Dammit! I said it was a miscalculation!" Swearengen brought his hands down onto his desktop, then froze, realizing he may have made a fatal error. Luckily for him, Clayton had good trigger discipline, so his head did not acquire any new holes this time. "Sorry." Al raised his hands once more.

"' _ Miscalculation _ '? You call nearly getting me killed a  _ miscalculation _ ?"

"I wasn't trying to get you killed. I was trying to do just the opposite." Swearengen sighed once more. "Look, the information on you arrived before Fogg did. It's how I knew he was coming to town in the first place. If I hadn't given it to him, sooner or later he'd have received it on his own, once his employers realized he hadn't received it.

"I had  _ hoped _ that working together would've formed some of those 'bonds of friendship' I've heard so much about and that by waiting to give him the information, he'd be willing to look the other fucking way!" He snorted. "Naturally, he had to go and prove exactly what I've known all along: friendship is for suckers." He looked Clayton up and down. "Then you turn around and spare him when he's trying his damnedest to kill you. Why?"

"Friendship." Clayton answered with a shrug and lowered his gun.

"Suckers." Swearengen snorted again, then looked at him, curiously. "How exactly are you sittin' here talkin' to me, anyway? Last I saw, your ' _ friend _ ' was putting a hole through your chest."

Clayton reached into his pocket and pulled out the old snuff box, tossing it onto Swearengen's desk. "I've learned to always be prepared."

Swearengen picked up the ruined trinket, turning it over in his hand, and laughed. "Well, I'll be damned.  _ This _ is precisely why I wanted you on my side."

"If you want me on your side, I suggest you start givin' me a reason to believe I can trust you."

"Fair enough." Al sat back, scratching his chin. "I'm assuming you're letting your  _ friend _ , Fogg, leave town as planned?"

"I'm fairly certain some of the weird shit we've been dealing with the last few days is what caused him to behave the way he did. I ain't holdin' it against him, as long as he doesn't try again."

"Okay. The sheriff's already sent word back to Texas that you, or rather, Kinsley, is dead and that Fogg's claim on the bounty is valid. Once he collects it, that should be one less pack of hounds on your heels. I don't know what other type of trouble you got following you, but I'm gonna grant you sanctuary as long as you're in Deadwood and working for me.

"If anyone comes hunting, I'll make sure you know about it and I'll make sure  _ they _ know they aren't welcome here. Sound good?"

Clayton was silent for a long moment as he considered the other man's words.

"I can also extend the protection to your friends if that would make you feel better." Al gave him a wolfish smile. "Especially a certain Reverend who might just have a bounty or two of his own to worry about?"


	10. Chapter 10

Matthew woke a little before dawn and it took him a moment to remember why he was lying on the floor instead of in his bed.

_ Oh, right. Clayton. _ He smiled as he thought of having the man in his bed (even if he wasn't sharing it), alive and well.

He stretched, his back and shoulders balking a bit at having slept on such a hard surface, and sat up, reaching for the oil lantern on the bedside table. Once lit, he looked to the bed, only to find it empty.

"Clayton?" he called toward the washroom. No answer.  _ Probably had to make a trip to the outhouse. _

Shrugging it off for now, he changed clothes and made his way to the washroom to splash water on his face in an effort to finish waking up, then made his way downstairs. He stoked the fire in the small stove and put a pot of water on to make coffee, then waited for Clayton to come back inside.

When the coffee was ready and Clayton still hadn't returned, the first worry began creeping in and he hurried out back, finding the outhouse empty. His stomach sank as suspicion began to settle in his mind and he hurried back inside and over to the altar. 

Sure enough, Clayton's hat and duster were missing and quick check of the belongings that remained revealed his guns and holsters gone as well.

_ He said he'd stay. _ His heart ached at the thought of such a deception, but he tried to push it away.  _ He left most of his belongings here. He wouldn't have done that if he meant to stay away, right? _

As hard as he tried to convince himself, though, he knew there was no sentimental attachment to any of these belongings. Everything he needed or seemed to care about (including enough gold to start fresh anywhere he chose) was gone.

Just then, there was a knock at the door and hope kindled anew as he rushed to open it, hoping Clayton would be standing there. He tried not to look too crestfallen when it turned out to be Miriam.

"Good morning, Reverend," she said, smiling, as she stepped inside past him. "Is Clayton up yet? I thought I'd bring the good news: Aloysius Fogg was escorted out of town about twenty minutes ago."

"That is good news indeed," Matthew said, distractedly, his eyes scanning the street nearby for a familiar figure in black. When no such figure emerged, he sighed and went back inside, leading Miriam to the kitchen nook and pouring them both some coffee. "I'm afraid Mr. Sharpe is gone."

"Gone?" Miriam looked confused as she took a sip out of her cup. "Gone where? I thought we agreed he'd stay inside the church, out of sight until Fogg was gone."

"So did I," Matthew said, bitterly. "Apparently, Mr. Sharpe decided to leave in the middle of the night without so much as a word of farewell."

"But I thought we'd convinced him to stay?" She gave Matthew a sympathetic look and reached out to touch his arm. "I'm sorry, Reverend."

"I suppose I should've seen it coming," Matthew said, giving her a sad smile. "We can't expect a tiger to change its stripes just because we wish it were a leopard."

Miriam raised an eyebrow at his statement. "I suppose not."

Just then, they heard the church's door open and booted footsteps headed their way; they looked up to find Clayton walking into the kitchen with a bag in hand. He stopped short at seeing them both and then tipped his head in Miriam's direction. "Good mornin', Ms. Miriam. Didn't expect you here so early." 

He placed his sack on the table and turned to Matthew, as though everything were perfectly normal and added, "I dropped by the Bullock and picked us up some breakfast."

"You ' _ dropped by the Bullock _ '?" Matthew was amazed at how calm he sounded. "You were  _ supposed _ to stay inside until we were sure Aloysius was gone."

"I had an errand to run." He shrugged, nonchalantly.

"An errand that couldn't wait until morning? I know you were gone before dawn, Clayton."

"I know how to get around this town unnoticed, Reverend, especially at night." He finally looked Matthew in the eye. "I'm sure you can see the practicality of going under cover of darkness?"

"No, actually I  _ can't _ see the ' _ practicality _ ' in sneaking out at night, with a man who wants you dead still in town, and without so much as a  **_NOTE_ ** letting me know you intend to return! Do you have any idea how that made me feel?!" Matthew didn't even realize he'd begun shouting until he noticed the surprised looks on both Miriam and Clayton's faces. Immediately, he felt his cheeks growing hot and hurried to take a drink of his coffee.

Clayton stood there speechless for a few moments, before giving him an apologetic half-smile. "I'm sorry, Matty. I had hoped if everything went well, I'd be back before you woke and if it went poorly, I didn't want you wrapped up in the aftermath."

Miriam turned to Clayton, a look of concern in her eyes. "Exactly what were you doing that might result in an 'aftermath'?"

"Nothing much." Clayton made his way to the coffee pot and poured himself a cup, taking a long drink before finishing, casually. "Just putting a gun to Swearengen's head."


	11. Chapter 11

The next few weeks passed in something of a blur.

Despite the others' (very vocal) displeasure and concern over Clayton's late night visit to Swearengen, it seemed that the man was one to appreciate a good power play, even at his own expense.

By the end of the day, word had already gotten around town of Mr. Sharpe's ingenious escape from both Death and Lady Justice. It was also made very clear that any bounties on Sharpe or his friends were void in Deadwood and anyone going against them were also going against Deadwood herself.

Swearengen also hired Clayton to test the security of all his various business ventures and was so pleased after the first assignment that he gladly accommodated the Reverend's request to acquire the land adjacent to the church.

By the end of the first week, not only was the church well on its way to being restored, but the plans for a home large enough to comfortably house Matthew, Clayton and Miriam (with plenty of room for guests, Miriam had assured Arabella) were being drafted.

The Parsonage, as it was christened, began construction on Wednesday of the second week, once some extra laborers arrived, and between the party's gold and Swearengen's influence, they were assured they'd be able to move in within the month.

* * *

_ Friday, October 18, 1878 _

Matthew awoke with the sun, but lay with his eyes closed, basking in the warm rays that managed to slip between the bedroom curtains, and smiling as he listened to the soft breaths of the man in the bed beside him.

It had taken Clayton nearly a week to convince him that they were both adults and perfectly capable of sharing a bed without giving into their base desires.

It wasn't that either of them had any qualms about 'defiling' the church; Clayton couldn't care less what the church or God thought and Matthew was certain in his faith that God only cared about love, not gender.

They were both feeling a bit overwhelmed by the strength of the bond that had formed between them and the speed by which it was growing every day. They had known each other for only a month, but it felt like they'd been together their whole lives. Matthew was certain he wanted to be with Clayton forever - or as close to it as his mortal life allowed - and Clayton had made it clear he felt the same. 

Unfortunately, they were both aware that the world would not be accepting of their love and a proper marriage would never be in the cards for them, so they'd decided their first time making love would not be in a bed shared out of necessity, but in a bed shared by choice in their own home.

A home they would be moving into today.

Unable to contain his excitement any longer, Matthew rolled over onto his side and simply drank in the sight of the man he loved for a moment, before leaning over and pressing soft kisses to his eyelids, the tip of his nose, and his soft lips - which pulled up into a smile, before deepening the kiss.

"Mm." Clayton pulled back and looked up at him through half-lidded eyes. "Good morning seems a bit trite after that greeting."

Matthew laughed. "It's Friday. Miriam said we get to go into the house today!" he said, excitedly, and gave Clayton another quick kiss.

"Why did we let her take control of the decorating?" Clayton yawned.

"Because neither of us wanted to do it." Matthew climbed out of bed and gathered up the clothes he'd laid out on his trunk the night before.

"Oh, right. And why did we let her banish us from the house until she was finished?"

"Because she's scary." Matthew called over his shoulder as he made his way to the washroom.


	12. Chapter 12

Despite his earlier grumbling, Clayton was finding it hard to hide a smile as Miriam showed them around their new home. She was obviously pleased with the way her planning and decorating had worked out and was eager to show off her hard work.

She had greeted them at the front door, which led directly into a small mudroom, with a stern warning that shoes were not to be worn in the house, then waited for them to take their boots off before smiling and beckoning them into the main house. 

It reminded him so much of his late mother that he grew momentarily misty eyed, but he was well-versed in hiding his emotions and managed to regain control before either Miriam or Matthew noticed.

They entered into a sitting room that was a welcoming mixture of both elegance and comfort; the fireplace was already lit and the gentle warmth helped to drive away the last remnants of the autumn chill that had accompanied their walk over from the church.

A small dining area sat across the way, outside a door that he knew, having seen the house plans, led into the kitchen. He noted with amusement that Miriam barely made mention of that area of the house, aside from mentioning the larder and root cellar still needed to be stocked. 

During their short time traveling together, he and Matthew had both made an impression with their cooking prowess - and it had not been favorable. Miriam had not actually banned them from the kitchen, but he suspected they wouldn't be overly welcome in there either.

She led them through another door that led past a small washroom and then up a staircase.

"This is my room." She indicated the first door on the left side of a narrow hall, but made no move to open the door, instead leading them down the hall. "Guest room," she said, indicating the room next to her own. 

"And this is your room, Reverend." She indicated the last door on the right. "It seemed only fitting that the Pastor have the largest room in the Parsonage." She gave them a wink as she opened the door. "Especially when he's not single."

The room was tastefully decorated, but it was the bed that drew their attention. More than large enough for two, it was a full four-poster and even from the doorway, Clayton could tell it would be the most comfortable bed he'd ever slept in.

"Ms. Miriam." Matthew's voice was soft and full of wonder as he gestured toward the bed. "How--? When--?"

"Arabella and I had it special ordered," Miriam said, proudly. "I was worried it wouldn't arrive on time, and once it did, it was quite an ordeal keeping it secret, but from the looks on your faces, I think it was more than worth the effort."

She focused her attention on Clayton. "Clayton, just so you know, Arabella and I made sure that anyone working on the house believed that the bed was solely for the big bear of a preacher over there and the smaller room next door is just right for a bachelor gunslinger who is used to traveling light."

Clayton appreciated her assurances. He'd been very reluctant to share his and Matthew's growing relationship with Miriam, but they'd known there was no way they could all live in the same house and keep such a secret.

The day they'd invited her over to the church to tell her, Clayton had been a nervous wreck; afraid he was about to lose one of the two most important relationships he'd made in more than a decade.

It took him and Matthew more than twenty minutes to get to the point and when they finally did, he had not been prepared for her reaction.

* * *

_ "Yes, dear, I know." Miriam said and casually poured herself a fresh cup of tea. "So does Arabella, so you can spare yourself that awkward conversation if you like." _

_ "W-what--?" _

_ "How--?" _

_ He and Matthew stammered over each other and he didn't even realize he'd reached over and taken the crucifix from Matthew's hand and started fiddling with it himself until Miriam started laughing. _

_ "Oh, you two are adorable." She waited for them to compose themselves, Matthew gently retrieving his crucifix and putting it back in his pocket. "I was married, remember?  _

_ "Now, I can't say that I understand the kind of love you two share; I've never been interested in another woman that way, so it's strange to me, but strange does not make something bad or wrong. _

_ "The looks the two of you shared before, and since,  _ that _ day are so similar to looks I shared with my Harrison when we were first courting that there could be only one explanation." She seemed to notice Clayton's discomfort and was quick to reassure him, "Don't worry. You've both been subtle enough that most people would not pick up on it." _

_ "You did and you said Bella knows." _

_ "Yes, well, I have experience and womanly intuition, something this town is sorely lacking, and Bella has become obsessed with those dime detective novels and has been going out of her way to 'observe' everyone she comes across." She smiled mischievously. "She made poor Eugene more of a nervous wreck than he already was the first week. _

_ Anyway, neither of us will tell your secret and we will do everything in our power to redirect any attention that does happen to come your way." She reached out and took Clayton's hand. "You're not alone anymore, honey. That goes for you, too, Reverend." She gave the other man a smile. "This family watches each other's back." _

* * *

Clayton stared at the bed once more, seeing it for the sign of acceptance that it was, and felt his throat tighten. "You're too good to us, Ms. Miriam," he managed to choke out, as he pulled her into a quick hug, then promptly lost more of his ability to breathe as Matthew proceeded to pull them both into an enthusiastic bear hug of his own.

"Nonsense," Miriam chided, managing to give Clayton a pat on the back despite Matthew's tight hold on them both. "This is simply what families are for." She then proceeded to elbow Matthew in the ribs. "Reverend, as much as I appreciate the sentiment, I do not have Clayton's knack for rising from the grave. Please stop crushing me."

"Oh. Sorry." Matthew quickly let them go, looking sheepish.

Miriam reached up and patted his arm. "No harm done. Now, how about you and Clayton walk me into town and we can look into filling that larder, hmm?"

* * *

The Parsonage and church sat just on the outskirts of camp, so it was only a few minutes walk into town. It was still early, so the streets were fairly empty and they had no issues arriving at the general store just after it opened for the day.

They were just about to enter when a voice cried out, "Stagecoach comin'!"

Clayton and Miriam looked at Matthew and he gave them an apologetic smile. "It shouldn't take long. Do your shopping and I'll be back to help as soon as possible."

Matthew had taken it upon himself, as the town's clergy, to act as an unofficial welcome wagon. He felt it was his duty to help newcomers navigate the rough town, directing them to lodging or other pursuits, as well as offering his and the church's services.

More importantly, it allowed him to get an idea of the type of people coming into town and assessing any potential threats to the people he loved; particularly Clayton.

He waited until Miriam and Clayton had gone inside, then turned to meet the coach, wondering what sort of folk he would meet today.


	13. Chapter 13

Matthew waited for the coach to pull up to its usual stop outside the Bella Union, waving to the driver and guard. "Ed! Lou! Hope you had an uneventful trip!"

"Hey, Rev'rend!" Ed, the driver, waved down to him. "Not too bad, thankfully." He motioned toward the stage door. "Got a father and son who could probably use your assistance."

"That's what I'm here for." He waved once more, before making his way to the door of the stage, which had just opened.

The first out of the coach was a boy of indeterminate age; Matthew guessed him to be around fourteen. His long dark hair flopped into his eyes as he jumped down from the stage and he impatiently pushed it away with a scowl. He looked as though he hadn't been awake long, which made sense; for the stage to be in this early, they had to have left their final station around dawn.

The boy seemed to notice he was being observed and a pair of belligerent brown eyes focused on Matthew, his jaw tightening. "What're you lookin' at, Preacher?"

"Eli! Manners." A man, presumably the boy's father, as there was a distinct family resemblance, disembarked from the coach and put a hand on the boy's shoulder. 

The man was tall, though not quite as tall as Matthew, with the build and tan of a man accustomed to working outdoors (possibly a farmer or ranch hand), but the poise and bearing of a career soldier. It was an interesting mix on a man not much older than Clayton. Matthew wondered if he might've been ex-cavalry and the thought made the part of him that was still Danny Matthews, deserter, twitch with unease.

"I apologize for my son, Reverend. I'm afraid he hasn't slept well this trip." He held out his hand. "I'm Ezekial Putnam and this is my son, Elisha."

Matthew shook the man's hand. "Reverend Matthew Mason. Welcome to Deadwood, Mr. Putnam." He gave the boy a smile to show there were no hard feelings. "You too, Elisha. Pleasure to make both of your acquaintances."

The boy grunted, noncommittally, his attention focused on their surroundings.

"I'm the unofficial town welcome wagon," Matthew focused on the father, Ezekial, for now. "I'm afraid Deadwood isn't the most welcoming of towns and I like to be sure newcomers are met with at least one friendly face."

The boy snorted and Matthew noticed Ezekial's hand tighten momentarily on his son's shoulder, before giving Matthew a pleasant smile. "It's greatly appreciated, Reverend. We're new to these parts - not just Deadwood, so it's nice to meet someone approachable like yourself."

"Well, I'm certainly happy to oblige. I can show you around if you like; get you settled at the local hotel. If you have any questions feel free to ask."

"They say Wild Bill Hickock was shot in the back here in Deadwood a couple years ago. You had any other shootings like that of late?" The boy had a rather intense, unnerving stare for someone so young.

Ezekial winced, giving Matthew an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry. The boy is infatuated with dime novels."

Matthew smiled sympathetically. "Sadly, Deadwood is not a town known for law and order. Shootings are fairly common, but thankfully we've not had a fatal incident of that nature for a while now."

"How long?" The boy demanded.

"K-- _Eli_ , please!"

"It's okay." Matthew was unsure why the man was getting so flustered; in his experience, teenagers were often known for being single-minded when it came to a subject that interested them. "Last fatal shooting?" ' _Of a non-supernatural nature_ ,' he added silently. "Must've been back in July or August. It's really not as common as those books make it seem, son, even in a place like Deadwood."

It looked like the boy was about to argue, but his father put an arm around his chest, pulling him close, and gave Matthew another apologetic smile. "We're really over-tired from our trip. Do you think you could show us to that hotel, Reverend?"

"Sure. Follow me," Matthew said, slowly. There was something off with these two, but he couldn't put his finger on what it was. 

He led them to the hotel and before they entered, he pointed up the street toward the church and the house next to it. "If you need anything, feel free to stop by the church. If I'm not there, stop by the Parsonage; I'll either be there or they'll know how to find me."

"Thank you, Reverend." Ezekial offered his hand and Matthew shook it. "Your assistance is very much appreciated and I'm sure we'll be seeing you again before we leave town."

Matthew watched them walk up to the counter and then made his way back to the general store to catch up with Clayton and Miriam.

* * *

"He's a liar!"

Josiah Kinsley locked the door behind them and leaned against it, grateful that his son had at least waited until they entered the room before going off. "Kai..."

"' _July or August_ ' what a load of--"

"Malachi!"

Malachi turned on his father, pointing a finger accusingly. "How can you be so damn calm?! The telegraph said he was killed in September! It's been a month! Amie could be trapped in some hole right now, while that _preacher_ spouts his lies!"

" _Or_..." Josiah moved forward and put his hands on his son's shoulders, bending down so they were eye to eye. "He already got out and moved on and this is their way of covering up an empty grave they have no answers for." He placed one large palm against Malachi's cheek. "I know it's difficult, son, but try to think positive. Just for now. You're not doing Amos any good by getting yourself worked up this way."

He tried to pull Malachi into a hug, but he just shook him off and moved back a couple feet, wrapping his arms around his torso and setting his jaw in defiance. "Don't patronize me. I'm 42 years old, not some _kid_ in need of his daddy's coddling."

Josiah sighed and mentally cursed himself, yet again, for his insistance on following tradition and sending his eldest out into the world alone, despite his body's permanent youthful state. "Son, you're never too old for a hug. You think I wouldn't give anything to be able to get a hug from my Papa right now?"

"I don't need a hug," Malachi said, obstinately. "I need to find my brother. I need to know he's not lying in some hole, feeling the darkness close in, fighting to breathe..." His voice trailed off, his eyes unfocused and his breathing speeding up.

"Malachi!" Josiah rushed over, took his son by the arms and gave him a shake. 

Gradually the brown eyes refocused, then began swimming with unshed tears. "Dad?" His voices sounded so young and lost that it broke his father's heart.

Josiah pulled Malachi tight against his chest, being sure he didn't obstruct his ability to breathe, rubbing his back soothingly. "It's okay, Kai. You're here with me. Just breathe."

He placed a kiss in his eldest's hair and prayed that wherever his youngest was, he was safe and _above_ ground. He couldn't bear the thought of failing _both_ of his boys so terribly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, Kai. I've decided to give your brother a break for this one, but _someone_ must appease the Angst Muse.


	14. Chapter 14

The fifth bell on the grandfather clock hadn't finished chiming when the peal of a bell rang through the house.

"That'll be Arabella!" Miriam called from the kitchen.

"I'd better go let her in," Matthew said, trying to gently move Clayton's head from where it was currently pillowed in his lap.

"We should really just give her a fuckin' key," Clayton whined, reaching blindly behind him and grabbing a throw pillow, fitting it beneath his head. "Then we wouldn't have to go through this every time she comes over."

"You do realize this is the  _ first _ time she or anyone else is coming over," Matthew laughed, then leaned down to cover Clayton's pout with a kiss.

The bell rang again.

"Is someone going to get that?"

"I'm on my way!" Matthew hurried out to the mudroom and opened the outside door. "Patience is a virtue," he said, as Arabella made her way inside.

"And lust is a vice," she responded, eyebrow quirked, as she took in his rumpled shirt.

Matthew felt his face heating. "We were just sitting together on the settee."

"Mmhmm." She hung her coat and bag up and began to take her shoes off, before looking back at him and laughing. "You are just too easy, Reverend. Go back to your beau; I'll be in momentarily."

Matthew turned to go back inside, but stopped as Arabella called, "Oh! I almost forgot!" She reached into her bag and pulled out a bottle of wine. "Gene sent this as a housewarming gift. Could you take it to Miriam, please?"

"Umm." Matthew started smoothing his shirt, not meeting her eyes. "You'd best do that yourself. Miriam's in the kitchen and, well, Clayton and I are kind of banned from there..."

"Already? It's been less than a day! What on Earth did you two do?"

"Well, Clayton decided he wanted to make coffee--"

"Say no more. I'll take it to her."

******

Twenty minutes later, they were all sitting around the dining table, Miriam beaming with pride as they all complimented her fine cooking.

"So, Reverend," Arabella began, as she dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. "I noticed we have a couple strangers in town. Did you by any chance play welcome wagon today?"

"I did. Father and son. Father seems nice, the son seemed a bit...off." He shrugged. "Got the feeling he wasn't really enamoured with clergy. Not exactly an uncommon sentiment in these parts." Clayton's hand grasped his own beneath the table, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

"Well, given our proximity to Nebraska, that's not really surprising, is it?" Arabella seemed puzzled when they all gave her uncomprehending stares. "The Bloody Priest?" They all shared equally blank looks. "The Macabre Missionary?"

"Seriously? ' _ Macabre Missionary _ '?" Clayton snorted.

"Well, no one ever accused anyone in these parts of being eloquent," Arabella sniffed. "Anyway, he was some crazy preacher who ended up getting a whole town to kill themselves 'in the Lord's name' back around the end of the war. I have two books on order that feature him."

"Are you sure that's not just some story they made up for one of those dime novels?"

"No. I remember reading about it in the Weekly Intelligencer, I just never had reason to pay attention until I moved out here and started researching the area." She cleared her throat. "Anyway, we're getting off topic. I saw your father and son heading to the Sheriff's office earlier and was wondering if you might have an idea what they're doing here."

"They never really said, but the boy is apparently fascinated with Wild Bill. Didn't Bullock become Sheriff around the same time they hung McCall?" Matthew couldn't help laughing at Arabella's crestfallen expression. "Bella, I hate to disappoint you, but I doubt any outlaw worth his salt is going to travel around with his teenage son."

"I suppose." She said, listlessly spearing a carrot with her fork. "Did you at least get a name."

Matthew rolled his eyes, but decided to amuse her. "Putnam." Clayton's hand, that was still holding his own, suddenly went still, but he didn't give it much thought. "Ezekial and Elisha Putnam."

Beside him, Clayton began to choke.

******

_ Earlier... _

"I really appreciate you taking the time to talk to us, Sheriff," Josiah said, smiling, once the Sheriff finished telling them the saga of Wild Bill and Jack McCall. "Eli, here, has read so many dime novels about Mr. Hickock, but nothing beats firsthand accounts."

"It's no problem at all." Seth Bullock smiled paternally at Malachi. "Nothing like a bit of practice for when I tell stories to my own son."

"What about this other fella we heard about in Rochford?" Malachi looked up at his father, as though trying to remember the name.

"Oh. Right." Josiah scratched his head. "Something like Kingsley? Kinsey?"

"Kinsley?" The Sheriff eyed them both suspiciously.

"That's it!" Malachi put on his best excited teenager look. "The fella over in Rochford said his killin' was right up there with Wild Bill's and happened about a month back, but when we got here the Reverend said there ain't been any murders like that recently."

"Ah." The Sheriff still seemed a bit uneasy, but couldn't seem to resist "Eli's" child-like enthusiasm. "Well, that's because he wasn't shot in the back like Wild Bill. He died in a duel."

"A duel?" Josiah asked, incredulously, quickly adding, "You mean they really have those? The whole quick draw at 'high noon' thing?"

"Well, they're not always at noon, but we do have them on occasion."

"A duel. That's so exciting." Malachi looked puzzled. "I wonder why the Preacher didn't mention it when we asked?"

"Well, he and Kinsley were friends, so I expect it's difficult for him to talk about." He gave Malachi a serious, but kind look. "Remember, son, these aren't just characters in some book. These were real men, with real lives and loved ones who would not find their deaths entertaining to talk about."

Malachi hung his head, looking contrite. "You're right, Sheriff. I'm sorry. We just don't see this kind of stuff back home." He glanced at his father out of the corner of his eye.

It was time to go have another talk with the Preacher.


	15. Chapter 15

"Clayton! Oh, for heaven's sake. Drink this."

Matthew was peripherally aware of Miriam pushing Clayton's water glass into his hand, as he hurried to pat the younger man's back in an attempt to dislodge whatever had become lodged in his throat.

Clayton swept a hand at Matthew's arm, impatiently, while taking a large gulp of water. Taking that as a sign that his choking wasn't life-threatening, Matthew sat back, but kept a concerned eye on his partner.

"W--" Clayton cleared his throat, but his words still came out sounding raspy, as he turned his attention to Matthew. "What did you say their names were?"

"Putnam?" Matthew was so taken aback by Clayton's interest in the strangers that his statement came out sounding like a query. "Ezekial and Elisha Putnam."

"They're staying at Bullock's?"

"Well, I wasn't going to take a young boy to the Bella Union!" Matthew quirked an eyebrow as his statement seemed to set Clayton off into a brief fit of giggles. "Clayton...?"

"I gotta go." Clayton stood abruptly, jostling the table in the process.

"Clayton Sharpe!" Miriam scolded, as she barely caught her wine glass in time.

"Sorry, Ms. Miriam," Clayton called over his shoulder, as he made his way towards the door. "You all enjoy dessert. I'll be back later."

"Clayton!" Matthew rose from his seat and hurried after. He reached the mudroom just as Clayton reached the outside door. He was in such a hurry, he seemed to have completely overlooked something important. "Clayton, your boots!"

Clayton had just opened the door when Matthew's words seemed to register and he glanced down at his socked feet. "Oh."

A small sound brought both of their attention to the door only to see Ezekial Putnam standing on the step, his hand frozen in mid-air, as though he had just been preparing to knock, and his son standing behind him. Both of them had their eyes locked on Clayton, clearly recognizing him.

' _ Shit. What if some bounty hunters  _ do _ travel with their kids? _ ' Matthew's eyes instinctively went to the shotgun hanging beside the door, but before he could move Clayton was launching himself out through the door. Matthew reached forward in alarm, only to pull his hand back and stare at the scene before him in consternation.

Clayton had indeed launched himself out the door - right into the man's arms. Clayton wrapped his arms around the man's neck, while Putnam's arms closed around Clayton's waist - holding him closely and securely in a manner not too dissimilar to how Matthew had held him on more than one occasion. 

They were both laughing jubilantly; clearly overjoyed to be reunited. Clayton was laughing whole-heartedly; it was a rare, beautiful sound. 

Matthew had been secretly proud to be the only one able to pull such laughter from the normally laconic gunslinger. Now, here's  _ Mr. Putnam _ accomplishing it without saying a single word. ' _ I guess I'm not as special as I-- _ '

"What's going on?" Arabella's voice right by his ear shook him out of his thoughts as he nearly jumped through the roof. He turned to glare at the younger woman, finding her and Miriam also staring at the tableau outside.

"Apparently he knows them," Matthew answered, surprising himself with the acerbic tone in his voice. He turned his attention back to Clayton, but he could feel his ears starting to burn as the ladies turned to look at him curiously.

Putnam put Clayton down beside the boy and he immediately pulled the kid close, but there was no laughter this time, as tears traveled down Clayton's cheeks, losing themselves in the boy's dark locks.

"Look at that," Bella whispered to Miriam. "I didn't realize when I saw them earlier, but now they're with Clayton..." Miriam simply hummed in agreement.

"What?" Matthew looked at them, bewildered.

"Look at them, Reverend." Miriam said, then clarified, "Clayton and the boy. The boy looks enough like Clayton to be--"

"His son," Matthew finished for her, feeling sick to his stomach. He'd known Clayton had a life before they met, of course, but not once had the other man mentioned a son or a --partner?

Beside him, Arabella turned to give him a quizzical look. "I was going to say--"

"Oh!" Clayton had apparently just noticed their presence. He beamed up at Matthew, holding out a hand. "Matty, come here. I need to make proper introductions."

Matthew didn't move. "We've met."

Clayton's brow creased with confusion, his hand lowering, but before he could say anything, Miriam had made her way down the stairs. 

"Well,  _ we _ haven't," she said, smiling politely at Putnam, as she took Clayton's arm.

"Oh, right." Clayton turned to indicate Putnam and the boy in turn. "Ms. Miriam Landisman, I'd like you to meet my father, Josiah Kinsley, and my brother, Malachi Kinsley."

Matthew could only stand and gape, the words 'father' and 'brother' playing in a seemingly endless loop in his head, as the realization of how foolish he'd been began to settle in.

Suddenly, Arabella was directly in his line of sight, her eyes studying his face closely. "Hmm. Yes. Brown eyes definitely suit you better than green, Reverend." She smirked, then headed down to make her own introductions.

Matthew saw Clayton look his way again, a look of uncertainty and hurt in them that tore at Matthew's heart. ' _ What on Earth does he see in a jealous fool like me? _ '

Swallowing what was left of his pride, Matthew gave Clayton the most reassuring smile he could muster and headed down to the group for  _ proper _ introductions.

If he happened to wish for the ground to open up and swallow him the whole time, well, that was between him and his Lord - who was probably getting too good of a laugh at his expense right now to let him have such an easy out, anyway.


End file.
